


Crash

by beltainefaerie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Coma, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-10-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 12:58:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/953386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock tries to cope after John and Mary are in a car crash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I would prefer this not be the ending to either of my johnlockary pieces, so I will let it stand alone. It is canon for her to die and I really needed to work through some angst. Injuring the characters is strangely helpful.
> 
> Thanks to my darling beta mistresskikisshiphassailled for pointing out a few typos. All fixed now.
> 
> The typos in Greg’s text are intentional. He can’t be bothered with capitals and punctuation at a time like this.

There were cross streets and the simple line:

**get here now its john and mary gl**

\---

He wasn’t there when they were hit, their car spinning out of control and over the embankment. He didn’t get to say goodbye. There were no kisses. No holding hands or final whispers. Not for him.

 _Not both of them. Please._ It felt stupid and selfish, but he couldn't stop it. He didn’t even know who the thought was directed to. Just a plea, unbidden. _Not both of them._

Witnesses described how the car had come out of nowhere. The screams, the blood. How John had yelled for someone to call an ambulance. Someone had climbed down to be with them, to try some kind of first aid, but John said he was a doctor and wouldn’t let her go. He let the man help, wrapping the wounds applying pressure, keeping her talking. They had tried so hard, but she was fading. There was just too much damage.

“There were whispers. He kissed her. The only thing audible had been. ‘Tell him for me,’ and then the man said, ‘Of course, Love, but you hang on.’ I remember that his breath was laboured. That was all that I heard. The paramedics arrived and took them away.”

 _Why was this stranger there? How was it allowed? Why hadn’t I been here, witnessed their farewells? Why hadn’t I waited with them? How many times has John warned me not to rush off without him.whywhywhy…_

Sherlock tried not to shake him, this witness, this helper, this one who was possibly the only thing that kept John alive. He had summoned the ambulance. He had tried his best to help. John was still awake, though not at all well, when the paramedics had gotten there.

Anything else he would have seen. The ambulance was pulling away just as he arrived. They wouldn’t have let him in anyway, he knew that, but it didn’t make it any better.

He hadn’t even seen them.

\---

He didn’t remember how he had gotten to the hospital. How did he not know how he got to the hospital? How long had it been? Hours and hours. Waiting through the surgery. Waiting at the bedside. Someone had done the arguing to let him in the room.

All he knew for sure was that Mary was gone and John hadn’t woken up yet. He was stabilized. He should be alright. He should just wake up!

“You need to sleep, Sherlock. You should get some rest.” Lestrade said as he walked in, sounding infinitely tired himself.

“I’m not leaving him. I shouldn’t have gone without them. I just couldn’t wait. If I hadn’t...”

“Sherlock, this is useless. You know it is useless. None of this is your fault.”

“Of course it is useless. It is all useless. I can’t bring her back and I don’t want to see him looking like he did when I was dead but I can’t lose them both and he has to wake up and it will hurt him when he does and I am such an utterly selfish bastard, because I know it will hurt, but I can’t go through this alone. I can’t do it. Do you hear me? How do people do this?” His eyes were wide, breathing too fast and too shallow. He stood up, shouting now, but he still hadn’t let go of John’s hand.

“Sherlock, breathe.”

“I’m not leaving him,” he said with a tone of finality.

“No one said you had to. In fact, when they tried to tell me that visiting hours were over, I got it sorted. Mycroft called. He made it quite plain that anyone who thinks you shouldn’t be here can sort it out with the British Government.” Sherlock’s eyes brightened a bit at that. If Mycroft's intervention was pleasing, he was even worse off than Greg had thought. Apparently he had been expecting to be thrown out any minute.

“Kip in the chair, for god’s sakes. Just try to rest.”

Sherlock grumbled, but did actually settle back into the chair, even if he didn’t close his eyes.

“I’ll be back with some coffee in an hour or two.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything more as he left, just went back to focusing on John’s face, as if he could will him to wake up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a few changes to Chapter 1 when I decided to add on to this piece, so you may wish to go back and read it first if you read this when it was originally posted.  
> \---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lestrade had come and gone. The coffee he brought sat until it was stone cold. A nurse offered to get Sherlock a new one. He refused, but allowed her to throw the old cup away. 

It was dark now. The room dimmed, as though John had any concept of day or night, sensitivity to light or sound. Perhaps he did, but he hadn’t stirred yet. To others it looked as though he were merely sleeping, so peacefully. It was wrong. John was an active man. Even in his sleep, he moved. Of course with nightmares he thrashed and even screamed before waking, but his normal sleep was not static and still. He did not lay as if dead. He rolled and turned, murmured and occasionally, even kicked. Especially when his feet were tucked in. He hated that. 

Sherlock’s eyes pricked with unshed tears. He swore softly as he worked, gently untucking the sheets at the end of the bed. At least if he was aware of sensation he wouldn’t have the trapped feeling he despised.

He sunk back into the terribly rigid chair. He was aware of various monitors, blinking and beeping, but for a hospital, it was rather quiet.

John’s vitals were stable. Everyone had assured him that John should be fine. Pneumothorax was frightening, but he did have perfect functioning of the other lung and this was healing just as it was supposed to. So he should be fine. 

Fine. 

_How could they know? And what was fine anyway in the face of such loss?_

Exhausted and alone, when there was no one around to see, or question it, Sherlock lay his head down gingerly on John’s shoulder furthest away from the damage to his chest, and wept.

\---

Sherlock jolted awake, the monotone beep still loud in his mind, but as he blinked up at the monitors, everything was fine. He hadn’t known he had drifted off, but he could see what had happened. As he slumbered, his head had slipped, no longer on John’s chest, registering the steady, grounding beat of his heart. Of course his subconscious had used its absence to fuel nightmares. He watched the rhythmic rise and fall of John’s chest until his blinks lengthened and his vision blurred, eventually drifting back into a his mind palace, if not actually sleep.

\---

When John began coming out of the coma, it was a little at a time. He started talking a few times before fully conscious. The weak, croaky sound, as well as the word itself, made Sherlock's throat ache. "Moments". Just that single word spoken now and again.

It might not have struck him in any other context, but he was fairly certain Mary had never said that to him in John’s presence. Strange. It wasn’t a secret per se, it just hadn’t come up. Generally, it had made him smile, managing to convey something between I love you and we are as important as that experiment, you idiot, come spend time with us.

\---  
Sherlock closed his eyes. Retreating into himself. 

She was there, as she always would be. The sunlight filtered in through the sitting room window. There had been some tedious party at her Aunt’s. 

Oh, of course. 

It had been the engagement party. 

Honeyed hair spilling over her shoulders, she had turned her bright gaze on him and whispered, “I know you will never quite understand why we need to do this, but thank you for letting us have it.”

I thought it was inevitable, like the tide. Predictable, obvious. Normal. She understood that I would never quite be settled, would never want children. That I had never wanted normal even before it became clear it didn’t suit me. Some people spend their lifetimes wondering why they didn’t fit in. I’ve never been one to pine. It simply was.

But surrounded by their friends and family that day, I felt something. Unplaceable. Not quite longing, but something akin to it. And then Mary, sensitive, perfect Mary had drawn me aside, had whispered to me and had given me a pocket watch. 

It seemed a simple enough watch on the outside, plain silver case and chain. Practical, rather than ostentatious or ornate. I worked the catch, admiring the face, and I smiled. My phone had always served as a perfectly convenient timepiece. But then I felt the hinge on the back. 

As I opened the second catch, the intricate workings of the watch caught my breath. This was a finely made watch, the simple case hiding its true beauty. Here, hidden where the normal eye would fail to look, I found an inscription. This was about so much more than telling time.

I found out later that John had wanted some inscription like There is Always Time for Love or whatnot. Always romanticising. But he did have the sense to know that I would dismiss it as drivel, pointless sentimentality. And Mary had convinced him instead to go with this. Much more accurate and really perfect for them. Make Time was written in beautiful script along with their entwined initials SMJ. 

“So you remember. Moment by moment we shape our lives together, Love.”

She kissed me on the cheek and looked up at me with such fondness, “We are like the watch, you know. People don’t always see all the parts that make it function.”

The watch has been with me ever since. 

\---  
John woke up, disoriented, at first not remembering. The hardest part was telling him that Mary was gone. John winced, eyes closing in pain. It filtered back to him slowly. 

The ridiculous movies Mary and John occasionally subjected him to made it seem like everything would come back at once. But life simply wasn’t like that. You aren’t in a state of forgetting and then suddenly flash, bang, it is all back. 

Instead, things came in little waves, bits and pieces. Sometimes it is hard to fit the puzzle together again. He found it, though. The crash, so much blood, her last words. Her radiant love. 

“Sherlock, she made me promise to tell you something. ‘Moments’, she said. Why moments?” 

He smiled a bit sadly as he explained. By the time Sherlock was done, they were both in tears, but it felt good. Right, somehow.

\---

All told, John was only in the hospital four days. It had seemed interminable and yet, now that they were going home, was stunningly short. John had been kept for testing and observation, ensuring that all was well once he awakened. At last, the doctors determined that he was better enough to go home, _and now what?_ Sherlock thought. 

John shouldn’t be alone yet. Frankly, it was clear he didn’t want to be. 

Recovery time was likely to be around six weeks. He’d need to take it a bit easy until then, but they wanted him moving. Their lives should make that easy.

“Aside from ruining my lifelong dream of deep sea diving, I’ll be okay. No cases on the open water for awhile, just in case, alright?” he had joked. 

He was in good spirits. Well, as good as one could expect under the circumstances. Though when they spoke of releasing him, he nearly panicked. He couldn’t face the flat without Mary. Not yet. 

"Of course, there is still your room at Baker Street.” Sherlock had offered.

Relief flooded John’s face. “Yes, please. Let’s go home.”

Sherlock swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. _Home._

John smiled weakly at Sherlock. They needed to get through this, and they would. _Together._

Sherlock even managed to be civil to the nurse who helped them finish with their checkout paperwork, when she explained the incentive spirometer, lamenting that even though her patient was Dr. Watson, she really still did need to explain. A steady pulse of _Homehomehome_ made nearly anything bearable.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was playing when Mycroft arrived, though neither John nor Sherlock acknowledged him, so rapt in this melancholy tune. One of Sherlock’s own compositions, it was hauntingly beautiful. When heard from the beginning it was, in fact, one of the most stunning pieces John had ever heard. It started off at a lively tempo, all flourishes and sprightliness. There was some quality he associated with the Roma. _Only the ignorant call them gypsies_ , John, Mary had admonished one night and, though he might not remember each detail in her recounting of their history, he certainly he wouldn’t ever forget the proper term. 

The music was perfect for Mary’s energy, her brightness. But as the piece progressed, it took an abrupt rest for a whole measure in the midst of the melody. When it continued, while the tune was basically the same, the flourishes were stripped down and the values doubled, the whole tempo slowing. He played it with such passion that it had brought them both to tears and the last note lingered as Mycroft interrupted.

“I thought…” Mycroft began and uncharacteristically stopped, mid-sentence, looking down at some mysterious point between his umbrella and the floor, unaccustomed to seeing either man, especially Sherlock, raw with emotions. 

Sherlock set down the instrument and stalked across the room. “You thought, what? What exactly, dear brother. That I’d be glad? Glad that he was _mine_ again? Glad to have him back from _her_? I can see it in your eyes.” 

He turned away, adding, “Everyone’s, really.” His voice turning quiet, almost to himself, as he threw himself down on the sofa, “I know it was by design, the press would have had a field day, but I thought at least you might observe. You’re probably here to school my deportment, remind me not to act too pleased!”

Mycroft’s eyebrow quirked, clearly trying to puzzle through some of what Sherlock said. It was clear, even with how quickly he masked it, that he had intended just that. But, smoothly as usual, he said, “I was here to offer John my support and condolences and the use of a car. For as long as the media interest in your grieving blogger, lasts, actually.”

“May I speak with you, Mycroft.” John said, in a tone that made it perfectly clear he wasn’t asking. 

They left Sherlock in a right sulk on the sofa, retreating into the kitchen. After a moment, they heard the door slam and knew Sherlock had withdrawn to his bedroom. Nonetheless, John’s voice was hushed and hurried as he explained, “I would normally let him do the telling. He figured he eventually would make sure you knew. As he alluded, Sherlock thought you’d get there on your own. If you think that I ever wasn’t _his_ you are more than mistaken, you are an idiot. However, worse is that you utterly missed that she was, too. _We_ were together. It was all discussed, all fine. So the missing piece of what is going on with him is this: we have _both_ lost one of our dearest loves."

Mycroft stared at him, for once at a loss for words as John continued. 

“At least I get to grieve! Here is the widower. Poor John. No one dares to say again. We hadn’t acknowledged it the first time and he wasn’t really dead and a thousand other reasons, but I will say it to you, Mycroft. It isn’t the first time I have been the widower. If there is one thing my life has taught me, it is how to grieve. I made it through already. _He_ hasn’t had to bury someone he loved like this before. He barely even knew what to do with these feelings when she was alive! He never expected to love anyone at all. Finding that not only could he love, but that he loved us both, was unfathomable. But, however improbable… it is where we ended up. Now, we have to go bury a woman who was essentially _our_ wife and I am the only one treated as important, as the one who needs support. I don’t even know what he’d do with people’s condolences, but I think it feels worse that no one understands. So for now, get out. He doesn’t need scolding or minding, he needs compassion. Thank you for the car. If you think of anything that would _actually_ help _him_ , let me know. I am sure you can see yourself out.”

With that, John left a stunned and speechless Mycroft alone in the kitchen, and went to find Sherlock.

\---  
Late that night, Sherlock stood in front of the window, fingers steepled under his chin. He had thought he might play more, but his violin sat in its case, untouched. John was just nodding off in front of the fire, as Sherlock began, “I did this to you, John.”

“What?” John startled.

He crossed to John, words tumbling out all at once, “I did this to you. I made you feel this. I knew it was terrible, but it was necessary. For so long I have scolded you that you see, but do not observe. In this, I observed, but I didn’t _know_. John, I didn’t know. How did you ever forgive me? How did we ever...how will we ever…” He stopped. His mouth worked, but no more words would come. Tears welled at the edge of his eyes. 

He went to his knees in front of John’s chair without thinking, as though whatever had kept him upright had been severed. He felt like he was shattering apart. _How did people do this? How could they go on?_

Folding in on himself, he curled into John, head pillowed on John’s stomach, soft and warm. His arms slid around John’s waist, anchoring himself. John was here. John was solid and present. But his mind kept circling around in an unfamiliar way, as though caught in a loop, caught between what happened and what, now, could never be. 

John soothed him, carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. It reminded him of Mary, but it felt right, too. 

“I know, Sherlock. It hurts, but somehow, we’ll be okay. This time, we have each other.” He leant forward, pressing a kiss into Sherlock’s curls as he repeated, “We’ll be okay.”


End file.
